Yet as time passed, his leadership began to falter. First he lost one battle, then another. Rumors drifted back from the battle lines of strange behavior. Mahanasset gave orders to soldiers long dead, charged screaming at phantoms no one else could see. The Protectors of the city, for we did things like Kisua in those days, began to worry that it would be necessary to replace him, which would be a terrible blow to the people. If Mahanasset fell in battle, the city would revere him and the armies fight harder to avenge his name. But if he were set aside, the city would be wounded by sorrow. With the Shadoun hovering near like scavengers, we dared not weaken ourselves.
Thus did Inunru, the founder of our faith and head of the Hetawa at that time, intervene with a possible solution. In the ancient knowledge of narcomancy brought out of Kisua, there existed a secret form of healing that had been forbidden in the motherland because it brought death as well as life. Yet applied properly, this secret art might have the power to do what the Hetawa’s healers otherwise could not—restore a broken soul to peace.
Yes, you understand now. It seems strange to think that something so valued in our society today was once feared and misunderstood then… but this was the beginning of the change. Mahanasset was brought to the Hetawa—raving, sick, unable to tell reality from phantasm. One of the Hetawa’s priests, a dying old man, offered himself as the donor of the dream. Inunru himself performed the transfer from one to the other—and in the process the city beheld not one but two miracles. The first was the restoration of Mahanasset’s sanity. He leaped up from his sickbed whole and healed in every way. The second, unexpected, miracle was the joy with which the old priest died. “Hananja, I come!” he is said to have cried in his sleep before the end. And there was no doubt that the old man had died happy, for Inunru shared his joy with everyone present. Many wept to know that he had experienced such peace.
The rest you can guess. Mahanasset resumed control of his army and led them in a devastating strike against the Shadoun, forcing them to pay tribute, barring them from the local trade, and assuring the world of Gujaareh’s strength. The dying began to come to the Hetawa in fours, then in hordes, choosing peace over misery and pain. The afflicted were brought to the Hetawa as well, and sent away sane or healed in body. When Mahanasset returned from his victorious campaigns, the people were so joyful that they made him their ruler in place of the Protectors, naming him ‘King’ as barbarians do their lords. But he refused this.
“This is Hananja’s city, as I am Hananja’s servant,” he said. “She can be the only true ruler here. I will rule in Her name as Prince, and claim ‘King’ only when I can take my place at Her side in Ina-Karekh. And I will rule with the guidance of the Hetawa, without whose wisdom Gujaareh might have fallen.”
And so it was. Under Mahanasset the Hetawa’s law became Gujaareh’s law, and Hananja’s peace became the Prince’s gift to the people. And thus did it begin that we honor Hananja above all others.
24
Members of the four paths to Hananja’s wisdom are permitted to put aside propriety and the order of command, so long as this is done in service of peace.
The Superior of the Hetawa sat in his office, enjoying the sounds of early morning, and wondering again how long it would be before his Gatherers came for him.
A day and a night had passed since the meeting with the Prince, and its aftermath. Usually when he returned from such meetings in the small hours of the morning, few of the Hetawa’s denizens were about—only the two Sentinels who served as his bodyguards, the ones on guard duty, and the handful of Sharers on night duty. Sometimes a few sleepy acolytes accompanied the latter, in their contemplation of the Sentinels’ or Sharers’ paths, and a few apprentices assisted their older brethren. But as the Superior had passed through the Hall of Blessings that morning, Rabbaneh had been there, kneeling at Hananja’s feet—but not praying. The Gatherer instead faced the Hall’s entrance, and he had not donned his hooded robe; he was still on duty. Shocking to see him like that, the Superior reflected, with his back to the statue. A snub to Hananja, though a mild one since after all the statue was only a statue.
But Rabbaneh’s gaze had been fixed on the Superior, his face unsmiling, his gaze a condemnation. There is only one affront to Hananja here, those eyes had said. And with that, the Superior had known his Final Tithe had come due.
He had spent the time since confined to his rooms, ordering no visitors so he could pray and contemplate and prepare himself for Hananja’s peace. During the night he had inadvertently fallen asleep, and been astonished to wake up alive. There would be no time to brief Teacher Maatan, his chosen successor, in the secrets that came with the mantle of Superior. Those secrets had all gone wrong anyhow. Perhaps if they died with him, the Hetawa might survive the coming storm.
The beaded front hanging rattled to announce that someone had entered his quarters. The Superior tensed, then forced himself to relax. Only a Council messenger or a Sharer responding to an emergency could violate the Superior’s privacy when he requested it. And Gatherers, of course. They went wherever they pleased. He opened his eyes.
They stood on the other side of his desk, solemn, still dressed in their sleeveless formal robes after the morning’s Tithing Ceremony. Not a Gathering, then. The Superior wasn’t certain whether to feel relief or annoyance.
“We would speak with you, Brother Superior.” Sonta-i, sounding as though he’d come to discuss the weather. And perhaps this meant no more than that to him, with his peculiar sense of right and wrong. Doubtless it was Rabbaneh who needed the explanations and details; for Sonta-i it was a simple matter. If the Superior was corrupt, then the Superior would die.
“Yes,” the Superior said. “I’ve been waiting.”
“We come to speak only,” Rabbaneh said. He sat in the chair on the other side of the Superior’s desk. Sonta-i remained standing.
“An Assay of Truth, then. I should thank you for your consideration.” The Superior sighed. “Though a part of me would prefer you get this over with.”
“Explain,” Sonta-i said. “Perhaps we shall oblige you.”
The Superior rose, going to a nearby cupboard. He opened it and took out a red bottle, wrought of glass by one of the greatest craftsmen in the city. Gatherers shunned drink for their own pleasure, but sometimes they would partake on a tithebearer’s behalf. “Drink with me, Brothers. I’m not quite an elder yet. I’m not ready to spend my last hours alone.”
“Is this a confession?” Rabbaneh watched his face intently as the Superior took three red glasses from the cupboard and set them down on his desk. “Are you asking for Hananja’s blessing?”
The Superior paused for a moment, considering, then sighed and began to pour. “Yes to the first question, no to the second. I would like very much to live. But I know the law of this land as well as you and by that law, Her Law, I am corrupt. Whatever you may think of me, I have never wanted to be a hypocrite.” He paused, taking his glass and nodding for them to take the others. Rabbaneh hesitated but then took one. Sonta-i did not.
Instead Sonta-i said, “Whether you wanted it or not, you have become one. Only a hypocrite would decry our brother as a rogue, then allow the Prince to take him away. If you believed him dangerous, he should never have left this Hetawa and the care of his brethren. But Rabbaneh says you acted on the Prince’s orders.” For just an instant something flashed across Sonta-i’s weathered face: curiosity. “How is it that the Superior of the Hetawa, Hananja’s foremost Servant, follows any orders save Hers?”